“I'll just anchor these cayuses to a rock, to make dead-sure of them,” Keith remarked. “It wouldn't be fun to be set afoot out here; now, would it? How would you like the job of walking home, eh?”
“I don't think I'd enjoy it much,” Beatrice said, showing her one dimple conspicuously. “I'd rather ride.”
“Throw up your hands!” growled a voice from somewhere.
Keith wheeled toward the sound, and a bullet spatted into the yellow clay, two inches from the toe of his boot. Also, a rifle cracked sharply. He took the hint, and put his hands immediately on a level with his hat crown.
“No use,” he called out ruefully. “I haven't anything to return the compliment with.”
“Well, I've got t' have the papers fur that, mister,” retorted the voice, and a man appeared from the shelter of a rock and came slowly down to them—a man, long-legged and lank, with haggard, unshaven face and eyes that had hunger and dogged endurance looking out. He picked his way carefully with his feet, his eyes and the rifle fixed unswervingly at the two. Beatrice was too astonished to make a sound.
“What sort of a hold-up do you call this?” demanded Keith hotly, his hands itching to be down and busy. “We don't carry rolls of money around in the hills, you fool!”
“Oh, damn your money!” the man said roughly. “I've got money t' burn. I want t' trade horses with yuh. That roan, there, looks like a stayer. I'll take him.”
“Well, seeing you seem to be head push here, I guess it's a trade,” Keith answered. “But I'll thank you for my own saddle.”
Beatrice, whose hands were up beside her ears, and not an inch higher, changed from amazed curiosity to concern. “Oh, you mustn't take Redcloud away from Mr. Cameron!” she protested. “You don't know—he's so fond of that horse! You may take mine; he's a good horse—he's a perfectly splendid horse, but I—I'm not so attached to him.”